


Wolf With Leather Wings

by MegGiry_Khaleesi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: And Maybe Smut?, Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Feelings, Feelings Realization, Hurt/Comfort, Someday, and other such gothic medieval tales, but there will also be, i've aged sansa up a few years, in this she's fourteen when she came to king's landing, inspired in part by esmeralda's plight in hunchback of notre dame, lots and lots of angst, other characters to be added to tags as i add them to the story, slowest of slow burns, so she's seventeen when this story starts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23137975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegGiry_Khaleesi/pseuds/MegGiry_Khaleesi
Summary: “The northern girl. Winterfell's daughter. We heard she killed the king with a spell, and afterward changed into a wolf with big leathery wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.”...Sandor comes to regret telling Sansa a deadly secret. After a fatal confrontation, Petyr changes his mind about who should take the fall for Joffrey’s death. Sansa  must struggle to stay whole, and Sandor doesn't like feeling powerless. AU, beginning in King's Landing. Three years have passed since the War of the Kings started, but Stannis hasn’t invaded yet, and Robb and Catelyn are still alive.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 38
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

Sandor Clegane filled his wineskin in the kitchens, ignoring the chatter around him. He was sure the servants were eager to be rid of him, so they could finish gossiping and closing for the night.

He slid away, past the hot corridors where laundry wenches wrung the last tunics into steaming buckets. He headed down the serpentine steps.

There was a change in the air now. Winter was creeping nearer. The night was too still, too frigid, even here in this winding, narrow staircase.

Nearly three years had passed since Ned Stark’s head stood on a pike and sparked a war. Nearly three years since Lord Stannis had threatened an invasion, only to sit on his arse in Dragonstone waiting for his red bitch to give him her blessing.

The boy king’s age also stayed Stannis's hand. The second Baratheon brother did possess a strange sort of honor, Sandor begrudgingly admitted. It was a contradictory honor; an honor that let him burn dissenters at the stake, yet an honor that dictated he claim the Iron Throne only by fighting a man, not a boy.

Well, now Joff’s nameday was approaching. He would be of age. Stannis was coming just ahead of winter, and every day brought him nearer.

All the while the little bird nested in the lion's cage, cheeping the years away, unnoticed but for when the king chose to play with her at court. 

The king’s intended was nearly three years flowered, but still not wed to her _beloved_ king.

With Stannis’s forces readying themselves, it was said the Lannisters were seeking alliances from other great houses -- great houses that might possess a daughter more marriageable than Sansa Stark, the traitor’s get.

Sandor tried not to grasp at this silver thread of hope, but something dangerously close to optimism crept up on him regardless. After all, even though she had no hope of ultimate freedom, escape from Joffrey’s marriage bed was no small thing.

The Hound was not an introspective man. He never stopped to analyze why he must protect Sansa Stark; he simply did. Just as it was as natural for him to eat, to sleep, to breathe, to shit, to take a long swig of sour red whenever he could get away with it, to make his rounds of the keep, to stand by the brat king’s side, it was as natural for him to watch over the little bird. 

He never acknowledged that this pull to watch over her was by far the strongest in his life. That like a hound once it picks up the scent of its master, he could somehow sense when she was in danger, when she was close to madness and needed some sort of raw _kindness_ \-- just the acknowledgment of her struggle. He let her know he saw, and that he understood.

He could not be at ease unless she was accounted for. He could not sleep until he’d checked the hall outside her chambers, quietly testing the lock on her heavy door. Oftentimes he’d spend the night just outside this door, collapsing into one of the dark oaken chairs in the hall. After taking the usual methodical swigs from his wineskin, he’d occasionally dart a lingering glance at the door she slept behind. His gaze was long and steady. Then twisting his cheek into that wry grimace characteristic of this hulking member of the Kingsguard, he’d turn back to his wineskin. Eventually his vision would blur into a light, disconnected sleep.

He dreamed of her. Again, he did not question it. She was always with him in the day, after all, so why not at night as well? She flitted through his wavering sleep like a she-wolf slipping through the glen. She was his dream shadow, walking with him down the corridors of his drunken stupors. She led him away from the meaty hands pressing his face into the flames. She blocked the sight of the ginger boy struggling to climb a tree as he panted and wheezed, tears and dirt and snot caking his chubby face, whimpering, pleading: _‘Please, ser, please don’t kill me, pleeeeeease, pleeeeeeeease…..’_

She was a ghost walking beside him, his dream eyes on her and only her. She was a bright little autumn-colored ghost whose voice was whisper-thin like a winter sparrow’s, yet as sweet as a summer breeze.

When he woke in the morning, sometimes he thought he heard her stir from behind that heavy door. He imagined the sun pouring in through her window, lending a spring-like glow to her chambers. He pictured that light rousing her still dozing figure, as she gave feebly into the waking world.

The picture of her waking was a solid comfort to Sandor Clegane.

She was the only true stability the Hound knew, oddly. This quaking lost sparrow of a girl. Somehow a strange kinship, an intimacy, had wordlessly sprung between them. 

Yet even this was tainted by her perpetual mourning, and by the abuse she took. Every day, every cutting remark, every threat, every beating whittled her spirit away from the surface until there was nowhere it could go but inward. Her spirit now lived solely in her eyes. The spirit gleamed in the luminous blue. Only Sandor ever saw that gleam, staring across the throne room, her figure never moving. 

He would gladly kill a thousand of his fellow brothers in the Kingsguard to protect this secret stability of his. 

He also wanted her away from him, far away. Back home, with her mother and kingly brother. Where she belonged, far, far away from him.

It was late evening now, just after the little bird’s bedtime. He was about half drunk. His feet were heavy and slow climbing up to the battlements above her chambers. He would take a quick look around the perimeter and then head down below, check if that latch on the front hall’s door was getting any looser....

He reached the battlements, and hadn’t even left the entryway when he saw Sansa there, her back to his: she faced Littlefinger, who did not notice the Hound from where Sandor watched in the shadows of the archway.

Baelish was speaking to her, rapidly, with some great intent. Sandor could not make out his words, but the voice did carry. There was a whisper of deceit curled around his soothing tones, like a serpent around a fawn’s neck.

The girl either failed to notice or was smothering her instinct.

A queasy rage filled Sandor.

Yet it was a rage controlled well enough -- he knew to sink back into the shadows by the entryway when Baelish bowed to kiss her hand goodnight. Sandor could just see in the twilight Baelish touch her cheek with his finger. From Sandor’s distance in the shadows, Baelish’s eyes resembled dark holes boring into hers out of a goateed skull.

After another bow, Baelish swept off --did the fucker deliberately make his black cloak swish like some sort of brigand in a song? -- and disappeared down the west side of the battlements.

Sansa stood for a moment staring after him. The torchlight picked up little strands of ruby-brown from her shaded auburn hair. 

She’d reached her full height now. A bit taller than average. She was like willowy hourglass, still and upright as the sands shifted within.

Sandor could tell nothing from the way she stood. He never could read her mood just by her stance -- needed to see her eyes.

Those eyes cried out alarm as he clutched her wrist when she turned his way. 

She was a wise girl who’d learned how to stifle her screams. She gasped instead, a sharp inhale, quickly swallowed.

Now he could read her.

Her expression relaxed the scarcest amount once she recognized him. Whenever he surprised her and she realized it was him, an almost tender shade of relief would enter that endless blue gaze of hers. He had to fight a stab of pride every time. She knew he wasn’t there to fuck her or kill her. He wouldn’t hurt her. 

But still, there was fear -- oh yes, the little bird still feared him. She almost trusted him, even gave him the odd small smile now and again -- but he was still too much for her to bear.

She was a young girl yet.

He felt the familiar adrenaline pump in his veins, as it always did when he was about to speak to her. When he was drunk, at least. The drink brought out parts of him he did not know when he was around her -- parts that were by turns bolder, more honest, and far more hateful.

Possibly because he was always more aware of his burns around her.

“Well! Little bird peeping to a mockingbird, eh? Shouldn’t you be settled down in your nest for the night? Hm?” 

He hated that he swayed, and hated that she saw it.

His grip tightened around her wrist.

“What was he saying to you, girl?” His voice was a low growl.

He saw that little jump in her throat _\-- oh, she’s thinking now. Thinking of what to say to me. Her eyes are darting to the side. What_ can _she say? Too late for social calls. And why meet upon the battlements?_

_She’s looking down now. She’s adopted her pitiful pious look. She’s going to plunge into some horseshit story, like when she spoke for Dontos Hollard at Joff's nameday those years ago. She made that crack about some nameday curse, I remember. Of course, I had to cover for her sorry arse after that. She was a pitiful liar then, and I see she still is._

She spoke. “He...I came out here to get some...some air. See, it was so stifling in my room, I...I needed to get away….”

He grunted. “And our good Lord Baelish just happened to be doing the same? Just outside your chambers?”

“He...he wanted to tell me….”

“What?” A bark now.

She flinched and squeezed her eyes shut; concentrating, concentrating. _What to say, she’s thinking….what to_ say…

“He wanted to tell me that he feels so sorry for all that’s happened to me. That’s all. He, he feels bad because he...he’s so fond of my mother. And” --

“Bullshit.” His bark came out with a strangled note he was beyond feeling ashamed of. “How did he know you’d be up here?”

She recoiled. He’d asked her what he knew she couldn’t answer. 

She wouldn’t look at him. His fist shook and a storm raged inside him from bow to stern.

 _“LOOK AT ME.”_ He yanked her chin up, and even then she did not cry out, though she was obviously frightened.

He saw shock and even concern now in those eyes that burned through him just as searingly as that other fire, a lifetime ago. He must have looked more distraught than he realized.

Yet he couldn’t think straight enough to hold anything back, and his voice was hoarse with a sharp sense of betrayal. “You’re planning something? With him?” He searched her face. She denied nothing, and her face betrayed nothing.

_Stupid bird. Stupid fucking bird. Gods, fuck it all._

The mewling little six-year-old in him wanted to cry out at her, _Why not me, Sansa? I’ve stood guard every night, I’ve saved you every time. I was_ right there.

Instead he released her chin. “Little fool.” He couldn’t control his shaking.

It was then he noticed her change. New light radiated from within her as she grabbed his armored forearm.

Wordlessly confessing the truth appeared to free something in her. She came alive now, in a way she hadn’t been since her father’s death. Her eyes met his without fear.

_Her blue eyes, blue seas in summer, trusting summer eyes --her eyes --_

He had to store up all his restraint not to--

She knew he knew, and she knew she could trust him. And so the dam broke. The little bird flew free, summer blue eyes sparkling and animated, smiles wide and quick as she spoke more to him than perhaps she ever had.

“Yes! Yes, he’s going to help me! He’s been sending me letters. Tonight was the first time we met face to face to talk about it. He’s going now to see if the map has arrived yet from the captain he’s hired. A map across the sea to the Eyrie. That’s where he’s going to take me. Soon. No, listen! Listen! It’s not what you think! I was suspicious at first, but listen! I was sure he meant ill, I told myself not to trust him, but you should have heard him! I meant what I said about him loving -- my family. My mother’s family. He -- yes, it’s true, he loves _her._ I know. I’m not a silly child. He says when he sees me, he imagines I’m the daughter he might have had with Mother. He” --

 _"Sansa."_ Sandor grabbed her arms and gave her one long shake. She was more mystified than frightened. She could count on one hand all the times he’d used her given name, and always it had been to formally announce her at court.

She studied him. His eyes were pained. She’d seen them angry, cold, sardonic, bitter, even kind. Always sad. But never with this strain and _fear._

The fear, yes, the fear she’d seen before actually, just a glimmer of it when he told her about -- when he took her into his past with him. Gods, that was three years ago now...

“You don’t understand anything,” he said in a deliberately slow, even voice. “You know nothing about him. He doesn’t see you as a daughter. He sees you as a means to an end.”

“What? You think...think he plans to carry me off? To...molest me?” She sniffed. That was so like Sandor Clegane. To think the nastiest possible thing of absolutely anybody --

He threw his head back and laughed, and she was unsettled by the harsh rasp. “Oh, aye. That too. I’m sure the bastard can’t wait to slip his hand down your bodice first chance he gets. But more than that, I’ll bet good coin he wants you as a key to the North, or even to the Riverlands. The Eyrie. All of it.”

Her nose wrinkled. “But” --

“That’s all that fucker wants. Power. And a nice Tully-looking wench to fuck him every which way” --

 _“Stop.”_ She rarely shouted at him, but oh, when she did it drove him mad. He wanted her to snap at him, snarl at him, howl. He wanted them to growl at each other. The Wolf and the Hound, locked in combat. He wanted to _bite her._

“You’re a cad. You’re _awful_. You always believe the worst! Always! I” --

“Oh, sure. How could I be so crude as to accuse the local whoremaster of wrongdoing?”

She was horrified. “Whoremaster? What in the Seven Kingdoms could you possibly mean?”

Another harsh laugh, unbelieving of her ignorance. “Only that he runs the whore market in this city. Owns most of the brothels. Everyone in Westeros knows that, except apparently you.”

She shook her head. “You’re wrong,” she insisted, yet there was a questioning lilt there. “That’s surely just vicious rumor...he works for the _crown_....”

“It’s not rumor.” There was no malicious humor in him now. No, the Hound never lied. Not to her.

“Well...then…” She felt a little weak now. “That’s…” she cleared her throat and tucked an auburn lock behind her ear. Glanced to the side. _Thinking, thinking, always thinking…._

“If that’s the case...but you don’t think...he’d want me to….”

“He would do anything. _Anything._ For power.”

Sansa was speechless for a moment. She did not want to believe this. All those letters Littlefinger sent her the last two months….his sincere sympathy for her plight...the stories about her mother...Lady Catelyn tripped when they were running once, and she let Petyr bandage her scraped knee….

“He wouldn’t do anything like that to _me_.” She raised her head, a regal Stark-Tully. _She can imitate a queen so well sometimes,_ he thought. “He would never do that to Catelyn’s Tully’s daughter.”

He snorted. “Because you’re so much better and more deserving than the lot he gets his hands on, eh? Girls as young as ten, eleven sometimes. Maybe younger. Boys, too. The noble kingsguard shoo away countless women who try flying into the Red Keep, half-mad when they realize they haven’t sold their children as scullery maids or pageboys after all.” Sandor had written to Tywin Lannister about the children when he found out. Actually sent a fucking raven. That was still when Sandor had brief moments of a green boy in him. Of course he never heard back, and he never had the nerve to actually speak to the old lion about it. Afterward he did everything he could not to know more about what went on with Baelish.

He turned nasty. “But who cares about their fate, as long as the Princess of the North gets herself to safety?”

She was so cold her bones were like ice. She pulled her cloak close around her throat, a nervous twitch in her hand. She felt empty. _Girls as young as ten, eleven sometimes._ Not much younger that she was, when she came to King’s Landing. Arya’s age.

Arya. _Their mothers, half-mad…._

 _Boys, too._ A flash of Bran and Rickon, howling with Shaggydog and the other as they raced across a field.

It was a great effort to get her next words out. “I just want to go home.”

Her voice was so plain.

It was a gentler hand taking her wrist now. His grasp was so warm in the chill night air. He had the same look about him he had when he held the handkerchief to her split lip, when he warned her to give Joffrey what he wanted. 

She knew back then that Sandor Clegane would not hurt her, and she knew it now.

He answered her at last. “This isn’t the way to go about escape, little bird. He’ll betray you.” He sniffed, and she saw a spark of fresh pain in his eyes. She sensed that he was preparing himself, because he _was_ going to hurt her now, but only because he must. At last he got it out. “Like he betrayed your father.”

A whiplash start, quick down her spine.

“What?” She searched his face carefully. “Betrayed - no! No. Look, I believe all that you say, but here you must be mistaken. He wrote very specifically that he did all he could to save my father, to get word out about the queen and her brother. I even saw him and my father together, once or twice! Talking!”

“Sansa.”

“He’d never do that to my mother” --

“Do you remember when Joffrey called for your father’s head, girl? Do you remember Varys running to the king’s side, he -- and the queen, mind! -- desperate to dissuade the mad git? Where was Littlefinger then? He simply stood there, unsurprised, undisturbed. He smiled. I saw.”

No, no, _no_ , that wasn’t right -- “If...if you’d heard him speak of my mother….”

_“Sansa.”_

Her head was spinning. His hand on her shoulder and straight gaze anchored her a little. “I was there, girl. The day he followed your father into the throne room. I was there as he led in Slynt and his men, telling your father that they were on his side. I was there when they turned their swords on the Hand of the King instead. I was there when Littlefinger held a knife to your father’s throat, and I could just hear what he said to him: _‘I warned you not to trust me.’”_

Quiet now. A breeze blew her hood up, masking her eyes for a moment..

When she spoke she sounded very far away. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

That twisted something in his gut. “Hells, I don’t know. I just...sort of assumed you knew. I thought everyone knew. I never stopped to think...well, damn me. But I speak the truth, girl. Baelish is the reason your father is dead.”

It was as if a painting had been peeled back from its frame -- revealing its original, which was rotted and soiled, distorted. From the tattered pieces leered a devil’s smile.

Sandor watched as the skin tightened over her features. Her blue eyes weren’t those of a soft summer sea anymore. They were the eyes of a wolf frozen in ice mid-lunge. Unblinking, unchanging in white-hot icy thoughtless rage.

Sweat started to bead his forehead. He couldn’t read this wolf. 

He swallowed, praying violently for sobriety to magically come. “Little bird.” The air was somehow colder around her as he reached out.

“Don’t touch me,” some twisted wolf-warg spat out of her throat. 

The she-wolf slipped away from him, now with the scent of blood driving her. She disappeared inside and down the balustrade steps.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head against the wall. The alcohol sloshed in his stomach, and he could already detect the tell-tale buzzing in his head that preceded a hangover. 

The breeze lashed his face.

He had done the right thing, telling her. He had. 

Then why this chill? He felt an ache when he recalled her wild wolf eyes, her tight face. Why the sensation he’d done something irreparable?

  


Sansa believed herself a white walker as she stumbled down the steps. She was so cold. She felt very solid, very dense, as if she, herself, were all that was real in this dark twisting corridor leading back to her chambers. 

_Girls as young as ten, eleven sometimes. Maybe younger. Boys, too._

_Mothers half-mad._

_“I warned you not to trust me.”_

_A blade to Father’s neck._

She was close to her door now. Her head pounded and there was a jagged red edge to everything, like a wolf’s fur when about to lunge.

Lady’s yellow eyes kept wavering, weaving through her vision, but not like they’d ever been in life. They were alight now with the desire, the need to kill.

She felt a soft hand on her shoulder just as she was about to lift open her latch.

Turning, she was eye to eye with Lord Petyr Baelish again. The torchlight in the halls gave him an unholy glow, a hellish halo. He stood very close. Too close.

She shook and felt like retching, and everything was so red and hazy. She wasn't sure at first if he was a specter or not.

She vaguely heard his murmur through the relentless pounding in her ears. His mustache twitched with some secret humor. He held up the map -- the map that would whisk her across the sea to safety -- it had arrived. It was waiting for him by messenger just outside the Keep -- he couldn’t wait to show her -- 

She heard nothing more than a high-pitched scream in her head.

He reached for her hand.

She roared and lunged. She tore the map to shreds and then hurled the pieces to the ground.

She pushed him, hard. He stumbled back and oh how Lady howled in triumph when she saw his normally composed face collapse into shock.

Another extended hand. “My Lady...dear Sansa….”

Another hard roar and she slapped his hand away. “You bastard. You miserable swine. I never want you to touch me ever again. Never want your pasty limp hand in my hair, never want you breathing all over me, drooling about my mother, you sick little worm. All those lies...whoremonger. Murderer.”

Silence stretched between them full of dread. Sansa was too far gone to notice or care.

His eyes were cold little stones. His voice was calmly quizzical in its detachment when he finally spoke. “Tell me, sweetling. When and where did you come up with this sterling picture of my character, in the mere minutes we have been apart this evening?”

He received another shove and growl. She did not look like Catelyn now. She looked like a jackal wearing Catelyn’s face. Her voice poured like honey-sweet poison down his ear. “You disgust me. You always have. I tried telling myself it was nothing, that you were really kind. That you really wanted to help me.”

“...Child, I” --

“Shut up!” He flinched as her saliva struck his face. Oh, she was far from beautiful now. Something had made her courteous mask fall to the ground and shatter, and she was a whirlwind of repressed rage let loose. “You are nothing but a small, petty little man out to destroy my family, destroy the Seven Kingdoms.”

 _“Yes!”_ Something snapped in him, too, berated as he was by this Northern familiar masquerading as Catelyn. He caught her hands up in his, and for all she’d been through she never quite knew disgust as she did at that moment, staring into his transformed face. She saw now the beautiful painting had been necessary, for the artist’s original rendering captured something purely demonic, something unfit for average human consumption. “Yes, that’s what I want! I want the world that’s failed me to burn down all around me. I want to stand as king among its ashes. With you, Sansa” -- his fingers were thin pincers digging into her arms. “With you as my queen, if I can't have Cat.”

“You’re absolutely mad.” She wanted to vomit. She needed to vomit.

“Sansa,” he crooned in a way that brought the bile and the rage to the top, bellowing out of her again. She cried out in true physical disgust as he reached out for her hair. She bat him away as if his hand was a large, venomous spider. 

Everything came out. Every retort, insult, oath, and curse she’d bitten back in front of Joffrey, the queen, and all of King’s Landing spilled out of her now. To see that last shining shred of hope for escape turn into this was beyond endurance. She was unable to keep it all inside any longer.  
.  
“You do disgust me, you do. Seller of children. You are worse than anyone. You are pathetic, a pathetic monster. A stupid, jealous fool. You murdered my father. I know exactly why my mother chose to marry first my uncle then my father rather than even acknowledge you. She must have known deep down the truth, the disgusting truth about you. I would rather die than look on you again.”

It was the way she said it: as if he were a shit-caked peasant dying in the streets, reaching for her skirt.

He saw all the Tullys simultaneously in her, and his hatred for them bowled him over. 

And yes, yes, of _course_ he saw, too, her father in her. Quite clearly. Ned Stark’s vengeful familiar blazed out of her heartless eyes.

She was hideous to him now.

Yes, something broke in Petyr Baelish, as well. Much that he, too, had held back all these years came broiling to the surface, a dark thick ooze bubbling over.

This ooze slithered and transformed, taking the shape of Sansa Stark in front of him.

As it did, he felt a sudden leaden clarity descend on him, a heavy peace. It was a peace sparked not by the light of the heavens, but by the fires of his own hell.

Oh. Oh, he’d enjoy this like nothing else. Like nothing else, even more than when her father’s head tumbled from his body.

They stared at each other. The air vibrated between them.

He did a better job than she of concealing his unleashed fury. With a beautiful slow elegance, he bowed almost to the floor. His voice was as soft as a bard’s song. “As you wish, my lady.” There was a romantic gentleness to his parting gaze.

As swiftly as he’d come, he was gone. His light boots made no sound as he disappeared up the serpentine steps.

  


Sandor heard the shouting as he weaved down the steps. His blood spiked. She was -- screaming?

Rational thought fled and keen canine instinct sped him down the steps, banging and clanging his way down.

Yet something made him halt as he neared her door. There was a righteous rage, a lupine growl in her voice that didn’t belong to one accosted. It was clear to him that she was the attacker here.

He inched forward and could just see Petyr bow once more, could hear the low murmur of his voice. His face was empty of all emotion, and Sandor felt real fear then.

Littlefinger disappeared, and Sansa collapsed to the floor, to her knees.

He was eerily reminded of when her father was thrown to his knees, his own sword hovering above his neck.

“Here. Girl.” Sandor tried to raise her to her feet, but she had gone limp like one of Myrcella’s dolls left behind. Like her own doll her father gave her.

He couldn’t see her face through her thick mane of hair.

He finally succeeded in getting her inside. The safety of her chambers seemed to revive her somewhat. She looked around fitfully like a cornered animal. Once she spotted her empty chamber pot, she lunged forward, lurching over it and retching.

She was violently sick. Her retching was twisted with an agony that wasn’t just physical.

Sandor was afraid. He was afraid for her.

His hands tensed.

At last she was done, and she shuddered and sobbed.

He was about to help her up, lead her to her bed, when she cried out in the sheerest despair he’d ever heard.

“What have I done? Oh gods, what have I done?” 


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa could only vaguely remember the Hound helping her to bed. She remembered shivering and keening. Her teeth had clattered in her skull. His hands were the only warmth in the world as they settled her under the sheets.

Did he briefly stroke her hair before he left? Or had she imagined that? After all, that was something Mother would have done, and she’d been dreaming of Mother much as of late. This was undoubtedly thanks to Littlefinger’s letters. Mother….

Sometimes Sansa would stare at her own face in the mirror, in an effort to recall Lady Catelyn’s features.

She woke with a start when Shae turned the latch on her door. It was a bright autumn morning, yet Sansa felt none of it. She was still so cold.

There was a shuffle, then the heavy sound of armor clanking into the room. The door shut behind Sandor, leaving Sansa alone with the Hound in her chambers.

Sansa opened her eyes. It was apparently still too early for Shae to wake her.

From the horizontal position of her head, she could just see his legs by the door. His boots were always so terribly muddy. Did he never clean them?

She spoke. “I’ve made a terrible mess of things, haven’t I?”

The boots moved closer to her.

He swept her hair away from her face -- _ah, so I didn’t imagine it,_ Sansa thought with a hysterical triumph-- and he heaved a sigh. “How are you feeling?” His words were clipped, deliberately unemotional, in contrast to the way his fingers lingered over her hair.

She merely closed her eyes again.

“You can’t hide in here, little bird. You need to get up. Come.” Very gently, as if handling a hawk with a broken wing, he pulled her by her arm into a sitting position. 

She fought the leftover nausea that hadn’t quite settled in her stomach, which was disturbed now that she was vertical. She rocked as if she were on a boat, recovering from a long bout of seasickness. Or as if she were a drunk.

She was still wearing the dress from her rendezvous.

She flinched in surprise as a pile of cloth hit her face. “That nightgown, put it on so the maid won’t know anything happened. I know you trust her for some foolish reason, but she should know as little about what happened last night as possible.”

“What…” She tried to lift her hand, her head, anything, but they were all still so heavy. _I am a white walker, frozen to the bone, and my limbs hang heavy toward the ground._

She tried again. “What am I going to do about _him?”_

He answered in a low voice. “Avoid him. Don’t seek him out to apologize or make amends. Even if he acts as if he forgives you, he won’t. It’ll be an act. He’ll seize any opportunity you give him to win you to his side again. Don’t cut him down cold, mind; you continue to chirp your courtesies if he acknowledges you, especially when there are people about. But don’t take it any further than that.”

“He’s going to hurt me, isn’t he?”

She finally lifted her eyes to his. She was holding herself in tight, yet her face was blotched with fear. 

She was a wounded bird, begging for mercy.

Of course, what she really wanted was the mercy of a lie, the one thing he refused to give her. Not that he didn’t want to. He wanted so desperately just to console her for a change; tell her that no, Baelish wouldn’t hurt her, that she would always be safe if Sandor was nearby, that all of this was a nasty dream and she would wake up tomorrow in Winterfell, with her family whole. 

But he couldn’t. Letting her guard down now, allowing her to drift more dangerously into her dream world, would just kill her in the long run.

That little dream world of hers had helped keep her sane so far, he knew. How often had he looked across the throne room and seen her standing there, eyes glazed and sparkling, obviously far, far away from the mayhem surrounding her? Untouched by it all.

Ah, but it was a fine line between that and getting severed forever from reality. It was a strong effort to keep her awake enough to survive as it was.

Still, he couldn’t quite do justice to her question. As always, he fell back on advising her. “Just be on the lookout. Don’t let him get you alone. Don’t trust anyone new you meet. Hells, don’t trust anyone you already know. Don’t attend court any more than you have to. Just go enough to keep gossip down. I’ll keep an ear out, see if I hear anything. You’d be surprised what a silent dog standing against the wall can overhear. And if you notice anything, notice anyone watching you, let me know.”

“What will you do?”

He wanted to answer her with conviction. He wanted to give her a detailed battle plan. However, he had none, none at all, really.

This irked him and he took it out on her. “What I can,” he spat.

She said nothing, and he was shamed.

He tilted his head, squinting at her face through her tangled strands of hair.

He knelt down. Here was another handkerchief, and here he was again, wiping her face, again dabbing at the corner of her mouth.

It was so rare for anyone to touch Sansa anymore in a way that didn’t hurt. She let herself soak in the feeling, let herself relax into that warmth. His hands, for all their calluses, were always so -- _there_ , tangible, _real._ They never failed to reassure her. 

They always touched her to care for her, not to hurt her. 

She liked his hands very much, she decided.

Then he ruined it all by saying so very matter-of-factly, “Nothing worse than crusted sick on your face in the morning.” He stood back up.

She turned crimson with mortification once she understood. Oh gods, she’d had sick at the corner of her mouth. Oh gods of gods, she’d _vomited in front of him just last night._

At that she remembered the chamber pot, which had sat all night -- 

She turned sharply, fearful of the mess she’d see. 

Yet there sat the chamber pot, spotless and empty.

She stared at him, mouth open. “You cleaned it all up for me? Last night?”

He turned to the door. “You passed out after a while and I took care of it. Remember, try not to tell your maid anything.”

“Why are you always so good to me?”

He stopped. His back was to her. He shook his head and sighed. He reached for the latch.

“Wait! You have to answer me!” She was standing now, lingering nausea forgotten. She was a little Stark commander, ordering her soldier to obey her.

His knuckles curled over the latch. That burnt cheek twisted again as he glanced at her over his shoulder. “Am I really so good to you, girl? I’ve stood by in my white cloak more times than I can count as they beat you.” This was a lie. He kept count of the times. It was a soul-killing ritual he forced himself to honor. “Did I ever help you then?”

“Yes, you did, you did! You still do! You tell Joff enough, and you’ve distracted him before, and anyway, you can’t do more than that or” --

He wasn’t listening to her. “And what am I doing for you now? I clean you up a little, so you can face them. I tell you to watch out for Baelish’s bogeymen. That’s all.”

He opened the door.

“It’s more than anyone else has done.”

His laugh was deep and dark. “True enough. But here’s the thing, little bird. You’re in a city full of some of the worst people in the world. And that’s saying something, since the world is full of nothing _but_ terrible cunts. It’s not that I treat you better, or that I am better than them, it’s just that I’m not _as_ bad. I still find killing the sweetest thing there is, remember. True, I’m no lover of torture. I hate a bully. No, I prefer my kills _clean._ If I don’t like the bastard I’m killing, I draw it out a little. They deserve some punishment, since we’re all dying anyway. 

“So I’m a little bit better maybe than some of them, but mostly I’m just no worse. That’s all. Don’t confuse that with true kindness, girl. You won’t find that here, anymore than you’ll find true knights.”

He ground out the last word.

He was gone, and she heard him close her latch securely from outside.

Sansa stared at the door for a long moment, then down at the green embroidery on the nightgown lying on her lap. Little pale green leaves. More light seeped into the room and she lost herself studying the gown’s material. She imagined the light green was a frosted field near Winterfell. She was lying there as the sun peeked through the gray above. She was reading her favorite poetry while Lady’s side pillowed her head. Sansa’s head moved up and down with her wolf’s breathing, the words blurring together in her mind. She heard Bran and Rickon howl with their wolves as they ran around her. Arya, too.

The sweetest cacophony in the world.

How often did Sansa lie in that field, the grass crisp in her fingers, and dream she was somewhere else?

  


Sandor swept past the nobles at court, eyes locked only on the throne. He’d just finished drilling his men in preparation for Joff’s nameday in a week’s time. He always regretted leaving behind the dirt and blood of the training yard, and the quick obedience of the men below him. He didn’t like them, but then again, the Hound didn’t like anyone. What mattered was he knew these men, he understood them. They were killers, just like him.

But the lords and ladies of court? The women all perfumed and shining, their hair coiled in those large ridiculous braids, their bright silks floating to the ground, and the poncey men much the same? Sandor had always mocked the men, but was generally uneasy around the women. The ladies. 

Of course, it was all women he felt uneasy about, not just the ladies. Even dried out old peasant women, even the kitchen wenches he occasionally took from behind. Part of it was his face. Part of it was his knowledge that no matter how hard he’d had it in life, women invariably had it worse. Especially the lowborns.

The only woman he didn’t avoid was a certain ladybird.

He was glad they all stepped away from him as he made his way to the king’s side. Yet before he could make it to the throne, a slender white hand tapped his arm from beside a pillar.

There was his little bird, wearing a quiet dress of deep mauve, almost brown. A wise choice, as it made the sickly green in her complexion look more muted. Her hair was bunched on top of her head, but two long thick curled tendrils hanged loose.

She was a smart bird, and had waited to accost him when all eyes were off her corner of the throne room. “I haven’t seen him _all day_ ,” she whispered. Her eyes were saucers full to the brim. “He’s usually here by now, waiting on the king.” She pressed his arm with each word. A tiny bone twitched in her wrist.

She was trembling. Although she was all bathed and glowing, she was still as pale as the night before.

Again that tremendous desire to console. He had to stamp it down. That’s where men turned into idiots -- and he wasn’t an idiot for Sansa fucking Stark.

“Keep to yourself, then, like I told you.” Again he spat the words out, too harshly, and yanked his arm away. He charged away from her, toward the throne. He had told her to stay away from court for the next few days, silly bird. Why wouldn't she listen?

The queen was sitting in her son’s place upon the Iron Throne. He raised an eyebrow at Meryn Trant, standing beside her. “King’s in conference,” Trant explained.

Sandor took his place on the other side of the queen, who as always did not acknowledge any of the guards around her. She was more interested in her goblet of wine and staring ahead into nothing, obviously not listening to whatever lords appealed to her that day.

 _Well, at least the little bird can hide behind her pillar without fear of the king dragging her out. She’s safe today. But just where_ is _Baelish?_

  


Petyr tried swallowing his smile, but found it twisting about his face in spite of his best efforts. Luckily the young king took no notice of it, for he was too involved in what was causing Petyr such amusement: Joffrey was aiming his crossbow at nothing in particular. 

This was his usual pastime whenever one of the members of his small council dared seek him out. The king’s crossbow was his fallback intimidation tactic.

Of course, if Petyr were anyone but Petyr, this intimidation might work. The young king was rash and sadistic, as keen to shoot arrows into passing cats as he was sniveling servants or pageboys with displeasing news.

But Petyr was no sniveling servant. No, he had the king’s approval, ever since Littlefinger whispered a word in the king’s ear about how much _respect_ Joffrey would earn if he gave his kingdom Ned Stark’s head instead of the weak mercy of exile. 

They were now in one of the king’s rooms adjoined to his chambers. The hideous toad-like Boros Blount stood guard outside the doors.

The king put on a bored, disinterested front as he let an arrow fly into a tapestry. “And why should I not send for my uncle? He’s been away too long at sea, wasting the king’s coin on drink and cabin wenches.”

“Your Grace, Lord Tyrion is needed there to examine our fleet. Stannis will be here soon, maybe in the next three moons.”

“But I want the miserable little creature at my nameday feast.” Another arrow thudded into the innocent tapestry. “You said I should have him there. You said he was getting too above himself, and that it was a perfect opportunity to put him in his place.” This said almost with a pout. Then the boy’s wormy lips stretched into a smile. “I was thinking of making him my cup bearer. And didn’t you mention something about bringing in a troupe of dwarfs for entertainment? That’d cut him down to size.”

“Not that there’s much of Lord Tyrion to cut down to size, Your Grace.” Petyr inclined his head in thanks as the boy snickered at his jape. He pressed on. “I must confess, Your Grace, that I suggested such plans before I fully appreciated the threat Lord Stannis presented, and how soon he may arrive. I’m afraid the Hand is needed where he is, ineffectual though he may be.” 

He kept his voice slow now, easy and light. “However, if the king desires to use his nameday to remind his inferiors of his standing, I can think of one person who would make a fine cup bearer. A person who is forgetting herself more and more with each passing day.”

Joffrey shot him an interested glance. “A woman?” His eyes alighted with joyful anticipation and he began aggressively squeezing his crossbow. “Is it Sansa?”

Another incline of Petyr’s head. _Yes, it is better this way. My infatuation with her likeness to Cat blinded me for far too long. She’s too stupid to play the other game for long. Just like that fool Dontos. Yes, much better this way. I will wreak my vengeance on the Imp some other day._

He had no lingering doubt who had told her about him. _Varys is too slippery an eel for me to avenge myself on yet, but like the Imp, his day will come._

“A low wind blows with word of another, finer lady to soon take her place as your bride. I believe Lady Sansa has caught word of this wind as well, and is aware how short her time as your betrothed is. It’s made her desperate to keep your favor. I’ve seen her preening and putting on airs. A most disgusting display from a traitor’s daughter. She’s liable to make a scene or speak out if not reminded of her unworthiness.”

Joffrey’s smile grew wider and he edged forward in his throne, nearer Petyr. He was like a little boy in love with gruesome war stories, eager for more. 

For not even a moment -- it was more a sliver of a second -- something quailed in Petyr at the sight of those venomous green eyes, so eager to torment her.

He recovered quickly and continued.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to lie, this is a pretty uncomfortable chapter. I heap a lot of humiliation onto poor Sansa. She is definitely going to play the seemingly passive and abused victim here and in future chapters, which I know is frustrating; but I assure you that even though it might take a while, Sansa will eventually come very much into her own and embrace the wolf within her -- in a very Sansa way.
> 
> Please just be patient in the meantime! Thank you!

In the week leading up to the nameday feast, Sansa never once caught sight of Littlefinger. At last, the night before the feast, Joffrey announced to the court that he’d sent his faithful master of coin to the Eyrie, in another attempt to sway Lady Lysa to ally with the King.

His absence did nothing to calm Sansa. _He’s gone to the Eyrie anyway. Without me._

Something terrible was coming, and it was all her fault. _Your courtesy was your one talent, the one thing you were good at, the one thing keeping you alive. The only time you lose that control, and you do so in front of_ him.

Her fear of Petyr was fast becoming a mania. She had only just started to trust him after a long feeling of unease kept her away. She had started thinking maybe one day she could look past her unease entirely, and learn to trust him as much...maybe _nearly_ as much as Shae or Sandor. That was big for her. Thus she took it even harder discovering his true nature. She’d found herself flitting doubtful eyes even to Shae now and again. She had always seemed to hover over Lord Tyrion before he left....

All this suspicion, this frightened watchfulness, sprang from Petyr’s deceit. 

He could be anything. Absolutely anything. And she had no true way to know now. 

Only Joffrey was his competition in fear, yet even Joffrey could be swayed. He had the intellect of a child, and now that his charade of chivalry was long dead, he didn’t bother hiding how vicious he truly was. Therefore, he was vastly easier to read. 

She remembered the paralyzing fear she felt when Petyr revealed his true face to her in the dim light outside her chambers. He spoke as if they were characters in a song -- just like she used to, before all this, mimicking the speech of ladies and princesses in songs because she didn’t know how else to relate to others. She was never as quick to be herself around others as Arya was, Arya who could make friends with absolutely anyone (when she wanted to). Sansa was only now starting to realize this. For all she’d always prided herself as the more sweet and proper of the sisters, Arya with her wild unconventionality drew the unlikeliest of allies to her. Sansa had Jeyne and Beth back home as real friends, but Arya had the stable boys, the guards, the villagers, and their father. 

Sansa had admirers; Arya had friends. 

But Sansa had changed now. At least, _inside_ she had changed. She was older now, and smarter. She knew the way ladies spoke in songs wasn’t real. 

Didn’t she? 

Oh gods, it was a mess. 

What if Petyr believed in those songs too, and Mother was once his perfect song? Mother was the Jonquil to his Florian. The defining incident in his life was her loss, like Ned’s death was for Sansa. That’s how he let himself become Littlefinger. 

_Oh gods, could_ I _become like him?_

Every time this thought drove her to the brink of madness, sanity brought her back down like a warm mother-wolf’s embrace. 

_No, that I will never be._

_I will always believe in the songs. Not the parts I used to, not the parts that don’t matter-- the glory, the riches, the status -- but the romance, the beauty, the good people triumphing over the evil, because that is how happy endings are made._

And there _had_ to be a happy ending. All the best songs were tragedies with happy -- well, _hopeful_ endings, after all. 

So Sansa would never let that go. She would never become Petyr. 

This was a message from the Gods, a great trial surely. _They’re to show me who I could become if I start yearning again for the glory, if I start reaching too far for war, for status, for vengeance, and stop following my heart._

_What I will be if I succumb._

What could be more terrifying than such a vision? 

Now she had angered Petyr and insulted him to his core. She had torn maybe the last remaining shreds of his twisted fairytale into oblivion. 

Maybe he thought the songs were wrong in that the good people win. After all, he had acted like a heroic knight out to woo his lady against great obstacles and gotten nothing in return but a scar across his stomach. When he acted the criminal, the villain, he got reward. 

No, there was no one alive now, not even Joffrey, that scared her half so much. The weight of this fear greatly rattled her reserves of sanity carefully stored since Ned Stark’s death, when she lost a part of her soul forever when forced to gaze upon his tarred and gaping head. 

She made a promise to herself, soon after her confrontation with Petyr. If those reserves were to break, and her sanity finally and truly leave her and she had nothing but who she was inside to guide her -- 

She would sing herself to sleep mad each night rather than inflict on another soul what Petyr had since his reserves failed him. 

_I may be mad someday, but still, life must be lived and I will stay myself. To get to the happy ending._

  


This odd air of stoical determination and bone-deep fear kept her off-center at Joffrey’s nameday feast, so that she walked in grossly unprepared for what her king had in store for her. 

Before attending, she carefully arranged the silver, amethyst-encrusted netting Ser Dontos had given her. The poor man. Sandor had warned her not to trust anyone, but how could she not trust the poor silly man she’d saved? He’d come up to her simpering outside the Godswood, begging her to wear this poor relic from his mother. 

She examined herself in the mirror. _It_ is _pretty, and makes me look pretty. This will please Joffrey._

Yet still, she was unprepared.

  


Sandor saw a real shift in the girl that week. She looked now as if she’d always just had a sick episode, much like she had in the days after her father’s execution. 

He knew it was because she was punishing herself, hurting herself. Not physically; no, it was that spirit of hers clawing to get out, the brazen wolf, who wanted now to punish her for jeopardizing her own life. She felt the whole ordeal with Petyr was her fault; and she had been so, so careful before then. 

She held herself in not only woefully now, but with intense self-hatred, as well. She was hastening her own destruction. 

This was madness, and he needed to make her see this, but where were words when you needed them best? Gone down with the wine. No way to tell her that she’d so far shown inhuman endurance, not only to the beatings, but to the degradation, as well. Losing control at some point was inevitable. It was just her bad luck it wasn’t some clumsy servant who spilled soup on her that bore the brunt of it, but Petyr Baelish. 

_Bad luck, that’s all it was._

_It’s not your fault, little bird._

Yes, he would try to find time to say that to her. Sometime when he could say it quickly, move on right after. Passing in the hall. Just so she’d know. 

Of course, there would be no such occasion for that relative privacy today. The king’s nameday was even more ostentatious than previous celebrations, now that he was of age. Sandor opted out of participating in the tourney, using as an excuse the extra security needed to keep the king safe, since who knows if Stannis might send spies or assassins. 

The truth was, Sandor wanted, _needed_ to hover close by, where Sansa was at least in his line of sight. _Truly, little bird, it was my fault for dumping all that truth on you at once. I should have said it better; gentler, somehow. Damn me for a clumsy drunken fool._

Like her, he took it only as an ill omen that Littlefinger was gone from the capital. What could Baelish have in store for her that was so dreadful, so dreadful he didn’t want to be anywhere near her, where one might associate him with her? 

Therefore Sandor was especially on guard that day. He stood tall and still, an impenetrable oak, as half-witted knights sparred for the king’s pleasure. At last the feast began and guests gathered in the courtyard. 

The moment Joffrey approached the table after changing into more casual attire, his green eyes glued on Sansa, a pit opened in Sandor’s stomach. Like Sansa, Sandor had been so focused on the threat Littlefinger presented he’d forgotten all about the king. 

Violence hummed in the air as Joffrey regarded his pretty hostage. 

And the hound in Sandor growled. 

_Pay attention, girl,_ he inwardly snapped at her. Sansa sat quiet and still without yet noticing Joffrey. She was very pale, staring ahead with glassy, absent eyes. She snapped to when Joffrey spoke, very close by her side. 

He spoke so that everyone present could hear. He addressed her in that insidious, mock-kind tone. “My lady, does my nameday feast bore you? You look a bit inattentive.” 

Impossible as it seemed, the girl paled even more. “N-no, Your Grace! Certainly not! I just...did not sleep very well last night, in anticipation of today.” 

_Careful, girl, careful. Don’t take it too far; he’s gullible, but he’s not_ that _gullible._

A gracious smile lit up the king’s face. “Well, I am very sorry the prospect of my nameday dared keep you from a peaceful slumber. Here, I know what will wake you right up! Ser Dontos!” He clapped twice. 

The fool approached, half tipsy by the looks of it. “Your Grace?” 

All graciousness fled the boy’s smile. “Bring forth the mummers now.” 

A clumsy bow and then Dontos scurried to the other end of the courtyard, where Sandor had noticed a motley crew of performers readying themselves. 

Sandor saw Sansa’s knuckles turn white from where she gripped the chair’s arms as the characters revealed themselves. 

Here was noble King Robert, much leaner than he’d been at the end of his life, fallen to his knees from the wound he’d received. Here was beautiful and gracious Queen Cersei, weeping over her beloved. Here was handsome, brave King Joffrey, promising to uphold his father’s virtues and wreak vengeance on those who plotted to steal the crown. 

And here was a leering, foolish, scheming, debauched Ned Stark, guffawing in a lusty, over pronounced Northern accent in an aside to the audience. 

“Aye, we’ll see how fur this new king gits! When I’m done with the lot of ‘em, they’ll all be a-bowin’ to me!” 

Low boos and hisses rose from the nobles around Sansa, Sansa who could not turn away from the figure playing her father. She took in by degrees the long greasy wig, the hunched shoulders under the fur cloak, the unshaven face and blacked out teeth, and the treacherous twinkle in his eye. 

She felt nauseous again. 

Ned Stark pulled Ice from his scabbard and threatened the king with it. At once, there was a sword fight. Cheering erupted around Sansa. At last the king disarmed Stark, who fell to his knees snarling and cursing. 

The mummer king stepped forward and addressed the real king, seated at the center of the long table. “A true king shows no mercy to traitors.” So saying, he swung around and brought the sword down on Ned’s neck. A shuffling of costumes and the head came off. Mummer-Joffrey picked up the macabre papier mache head for all to see, the headless body collapsing on its side, legs kicking almost comically. 

The features were closer to her father’s than the actor’s was, but they were contorted into a comical sneer. Sansa could hear her heart hammering away, painfully, painfully. Through her wavering vision, she saw the mummers bow, everyone around her cheering them once Joffrey began to clap. 

“Well done, well done!” Joffrey turned to his betrothed. “Did you like that, my lady?” 

She looked papier-mache herself, as if someone was manipulating her head to work her mouth open. “Yes, Your Grace.” This, hardly above a whisper. 

The boy practically squirmed in excitement. “And yet you still look a little weary. Hm. Ah! I know!” Very slowly, enjoying every moment, Joffrey lifted his goblet full of wine. 

With deliberate steps he approached Sansa. The courtyard was silent. Sandor’s hand unconsciously squeezed the hilt of his sword. 

His mind emptied when Joffrey slowly spilled the contents onto Sansa’s head. 

An immediate hush filled the assembly. 

“Joffrey,” Cersei whispered from where she sat beside Sansa. 

Joffrey ignored her. 

The wine trickled down from where it soaked her hair and her lovely silver hairnet. She felt the wine slide down her face, drip onto the dress she’d had made specially for the occasion: cream-colored silk with violets she’d embroidered herself. Such a beautiful dress: mottled now with growing pools of dark red. 

Ruined. 

Sandor watched her in amazement, incensed. Somehow this was a crueler shock than the beatings. This was base humiliation and degradation, almost on the same level as when Trant had ripped her bodice off. 

The Hound was sick with rage.

Yet there the little bird sat, hands folded in her lap, as quiet and placid as could be. She was very pale and her hands trembled, but that was all. 

He understood when he saw her eyes. They were gentle, far away. She wasn’t there. 

_Lady has her head in my lap as Old Nan tells us some of those horrid old stories of hers by the fire. Arya is teasing Bran, who’s hiding under a quilt. Lady’s yellow eyes are closing sleepily, and everything’s so calm and the way it should be. Winterfell._

Joffrey peered into his goblet. “Ah, my lady, look what you’ve done! You’ve made me empty my cup! What do you say to that?” 

Her expression was so dreamy, so tender, so absent. “I am sorry, Your Grace.” 

A wild wave of pride filled Sandor. _She gives the little shit nothing. That’s my girl._

Yet Joffrey would not be so easily placated. “I know! To make up for the fact, you shall be my cup bearer today instead of Ser Dontos.” He outstretched a regal hand and pointed to where the fool cringed by the decanter of wine. “There. Go and relieve him of his duties and fill me another cup.” 

Sandor was surprised at the sudden elitism that enflamed in him of all people. 

Sansa Stark, servile? 

Oh, it was wrong to watch. Wrong to watch her stand slowly, awkwardly, like someone half-frozen rising from a snowbed. Yet in her eyes were songs about Florian and Jonquil, about Jenny of Oldstones, of direwolves and little talking birds from the summer isle. 

Then at the last moment Joffrey dropped his empty goblet, sending it rolling underneath the table. 

Sandor imagined running his king through with his sword. He pictured the guts spilling out and heard his childish wails fill the air. 

Sansa was very far away from everything as she approached Ser Dontos with the retrieved cup. In a soft voice she apologized to him, taking off the hairnet. “I am afraid it is ruined, Ser Dontos.” 

She blessed the man for the sad understanding in his eyes. He took the hairnet and reassured her, “It is nothing, my lady.” 

“Come, come!” Joffrey called from the other end of the table. “I thirst, my lady.” He smirked as the drunker knights around him laughed at the weak innuendo. 

Sansa poured the wine handed to her by Dontos into the goblet. 

It was a long walk back. 

She never once looked at anyone, for which Sandor inwardly praised her while also despairing at her. _Look at me, at least, little bird. Take whatever strength you find in this wretched dog’s scarred face._

Yet she swept past him. She was as tall and straight and unbent as a tree in King’s Landing’s Godswood. 

She handed Joffrey the cup, but he stopped her. “You are a serving wench, and I am your king. Kneel to me when you present me with a drink.” 

He leaned forward, his smile ghastly. “Kneel like your father did when I had his head chopped off.” 

Sansa’s heart deadened. Like a marionette in a play, she sank to her knees. After a few heart-pounding moments of silence, the king at last took the drink. 

“I didn’t say you could stand,” he said quickly, as she readied her skirts to rise. “You kneel as long as it pleases me. Until I’ve drunk every last drop here.” 

So much silence around her, filling her up, it was crushing her and should crush everyone else. She tried not to think about Sandor watching her.

 _(When had she started thinking of him by his given name?)_

As she grew older, it was especially difficult to endure humiliation in front of Sandor Clegane. _He’s the only one who cares. Really, he probably minds more than I do. It’s all rather comical, really. This will pass. It will._

Yes, soon this wicked day would pass and she could retire to her chambers. Maybe she'd start a new dress from that pattern sent her by the queen, a lovely sky blue color. 

She thought of this, and she thought about her current embroidery of a pond near Winterfell. It was a pond she used to sit by with Jeyne and Beth as they'd braid each other's hair and gossip about the handsomest boys from the training yard. 

Because she was on her knees, because her head was down, she did not know what to think when suddenly the sounds of drinking stopped. The king cleared his throat. 

_Oh gods, what is this now? He’s displeased again? He’s clearing his throat to bring my attention to something, but that would mean I’d have to raise my head. He wouldn’t like that, either._

She frowned as he continued clearing his throat, coughing now. _Maybe it just went down the wrong pipe. He was chugging the wine like a pig, after all. Will he somehow find a way to blame me for that, as well?_

Only when she heard him wheeze did she dare look up. 

He was starting to claw at his throat. 

A jest? 

She looked into his eyes. 

No. No. Not a jest. 

She spoke without realizing. “He’s...choking….” 

In the stunned quiet of the courtyard, everyone heard her. 

Cersei and Sandor were the first to react. 

Like a lioness swatting away a pesky scavenger, Cersei pushed Sansa and the girl fell on her side. The queen's hands were on both sides of her son’s face. “Joffrey? _Joffrey_?” 

She cried out as he fell to his knees, and she swooped down, propping his head up in her lap. Sandor was there on his knees as well, wrenching open the king’s mouth. 

There was nothing blocking his airway, yet his face grew purple, his veins distended. His croak was thin and rattled. 

His spittle was turning green. 

“Poison,” Sandor announced, turning the king on his side, his head still on Cersei’s lap. There was nothing he could do. “Send for the maester!” 

As Cersei keened and called her son’s name again and again, Joffrey’s red eyes bulged. He reached out one hand from his mother’s skirt and extended it. 

He was reaching to -- pointing at -- Sansa Stark. 

She stared at him and then at the empty cup which lay beside her. She was dumb, uncomprehending. 

His hand dropped. One more rattling breath from his lips, and he was gone. 

His empty eyes remained on Sansa Stark. 

Cersei rocked her son to her chest. “My son...my son….” Her eyes closed and her face was stained with tears. _No, no, please no, oh gods…_ She leaned her head back and swallowed a scream. 

_Gold will be their shrouds._

No one dared move. 

At last the mother looked at her son’s face again, and followed his dead gaze. 

Sandor could feel her anger vibrating from beside him. The queen shook with it. 

Her face was death itself as she stared at Sansa. “Take her away,” she growled through clenched teeth. “Take her _away_.” This a wild screech. 

Suddenly Sansa was surrounded by the Kingsguard, Trant hoisting her up. Her eyes were so wide they seemed to swallow the world. 

At that, Sandor stood. 

“Your Grace.” Sandor spoke to Cersei, but he kept his eyes on Sansa. “Your Grace, I doubt the girl had anything to do with” -- 

“And what do _you_ know?” Cersei was practically rabid now, liable to turn on anyone. “You, my son’s sworn shield, you did nothing to prevent this. In truth, I ought to have you thrown in the dungeons alongside her.” 

“Your Grace” -- 

“ _Get out of my sight._ ” She was hysterical, clutching her child to her breast. “Get out of my sight before I really do mount your ugly head beside hers. _Get out._ ” 

Sandor’s eyes dimmed. He turned slowly, feeling something close to shock. Sansa’s summer eyes were so wide and bewildered. She was surrounded by them, the white cloaks, and Sandor -- 

Sandor could do nothing. Just like with the beatings, the humiliations, the torment -- Sandor could do nothing for her. 

He was too numb even to feel rage.

Never taking his eyes from Sansa, he removed his own white cloak. _I am throwing it at her feet, little bird, but it’s really for you._

Sansa looked like she might crumble from within. 

He could look at her no longer. 

As he moved away from the courtyard, the feast, his post, and his life, he heard Cersei address the Kingsguard. 

“Didn’t you hear me? Take her away to the black cells.” 


	4. Chapter 4

Varys privately cursed Petyr Baelish’s name, but still stood passive and silent behind the Iron Throne.

It was the morning after what was already called the Last Nameday. Word spread quickly throughout the city; bells tolling, hysteria brewing. Cersei’s first act when she could think clearly was to sequester Tommen away, claiming regency until his coronation. She insisted she would oversee Sansa Stark’s trial.

Already the witch girl Stark had become a folktale figure among the peasant children. Varys was sure local bards were already strumming away on their lutes, quickly composing dark and bloody yarns about the murderous beauty.

As he hovered behind a twitching Cersei, her emerald eyes full of storms, Varys contemplated the real figure of Sansa Stark kneeling before them.

The girl's long mane of hair was all that was visible. Her face was downcast from where she knelt.

He was sure it was not a pleasant night she spent in the black cells.

 _Such a waste_ , Varys thought savagely. _Such a waste, Baelish._

Sansa was surrounded by the Kingsguard, save for one notable exception. 

Varys spied that exception standing without his cloak, at the back of the hall. Varys couldn't be sure, but he thought the Hound's rabid eyes were locked on the pale girl at the center of it all.

Pycelle was just now finishing summarizing the weight of the girl's supposed crimes. “In short, it was as I said all along: treachery lives on in the blood. This she-wolf has finished what her disgraced father began. The king is dead.”

A hateful murmur rose in the court. Varys fought a twitch of the mouth. _How they all feared this same king, and probably prayed for such a day. Yet how easily they turn that fear into hatred, hatred of that very person they think acted out their darkest desires._

Sansa's head at last snapped up, and if Varys were a feeling man, he would have been touched by what he saw in her vast hollowed eyes. 

“Please, Your Grace! This is all a horrid mistake! I --”

“A _mistake_?” Cersei's voice was the venomous hiss of a serpent. “My son – your king – has been murdered, and you call it a mere _mistake_?”

A fresh wave of panic filled Sansa Stark's blue eyes. “No, Your Grace! No, I --”

“Hush, girl,” Pycelle snapped. “Your weak excuses will get you nowhere. The evidence is clear. The poison in the King's drink was found in the amethysts you wore in your hairnet.”

Another damning gasp from the assembly.

Sansa seized on this quickly. “Those weren't mine! They were given to me by....”

She trailed off suddenly. Should she give up Ser Dontos...? After all, he'd apparently seen fit to frame her for the king’s murder.

But before she could say his name, it came out of the queen's own smirking mouth. “My son's fool? Yes, dear, we know. We know he was your accomplice.”

Sansa shook her head violently. “No! No, Your Grace! All I know was that he gave me the hairnet as thanks!”

“Maester Pycelle, if you please.”

Pycelle held up a handful of papers. Sansa blanched as she recognized the handwriting. 

Her own. But how?

Pycelle's wavering old voice boomed out to every ear. “We found these letters in Ser Dontos's rooms. They are from you.”

“But, I never...never...”

Pycelle ignored her. “You offered yourself as Hollard’s mistress if he helped you escape. He provided the hairnet, you provided the poison -- procured, no doubt, by some vile sorcery of your own.” His censorious gaze beamed down at her from beady eyes. “We found these after discovering his body by the Blackwater. He was poisoned as well, from a more slow-working brew than that which killed the king. Thus the last man linked to your crimes cannot speak against you.”

Sansa shivered. 

“Now, my girl. What have you to say to that?”

A fire heated her cheeks. “Those letters are forgeries, and I’ll tell you who wrote them! Petyr Baelish!”

At this a cacophony of disbelieving groans all around her, and the queen stood, green eyes flaming. “Enough! I won’t have you brazenly accusing a man who isn’t even here to defend himself!”

The girl was frantic now. “You don’t understand! He’s behind all this! I insulted him, and this is his revenge! Truly!”

Cersei chuckled. “Quite a little romance you’ve concocted for yourself, Sansa. I hope it will keep you warm in the black cells.” She sat back down. “Once my brother returns from sea, and my father from Casterly Rock, your so-called trial shall begin. I will rule over the proceedings. Until then, you will have nothing but your little romantic fantasies and the odd stale rock of bread and sip of water to sustain you in the darkness below.”

The queen smiled as applause erupted from the court, feet pounding. The Kingsguard had to hold back frenzied courtiers from storming Sansa, their blood up.

Cersei could not keep the wildfire that was pumping in her veins from showing in her eyes.

_Until another comes, younger and more beautiful…_

_Yes, but I recognized you, Sansa Stark, and stopped you before you could take all I hold dear. You got Joffrey. I won’t let you get Tommen and Myrcella._

She reconciled herself to where this left Jaime, still a hostage of the Starks. In her heart, she had already lost and mourned him. Had he truly loved her, he would have made his way back to her long before now, no matter how many Northmen he’d have to slice through. As it was, there were disturbing rumors floating down South that the Kingslayer might have gone turncloak and joined forces with the Young Wolf.

Cersei wouldn’t let herself believe that, but as each day between them passed, her bitterness grew.

_I will sacrifice Jaime to protect Tommen and Myrcella._

Sansa swayed on her knees. She looked a living wreck. Her thick hair was bedraggled, her stained dress from the feast not quite tattered yet, but still rumpled and worn from her night spent in the cool dampness of the cells.

There was a quiet pleading in her eyes, but the rest of her face gave nothing away.

Boros Blount and Meryn Trant advanced to haul her to her feet, and that’s when Sandor Clegane stepped forward. He swept in front of Sansa to kneel with his sword pointed downward in front of him, in front of the queen.

His harsh rasp spoke in unfamiliar deferential tones. “Please, Your Grace. I beg you let me speak.”

The queen turned her face away in distaste. “You. What do you want, Clegane? Didn’t I threaten to throw you in the cells beside her? What, come to beg for a place back with the brothers you’ve failed in the Kingsguard?”

“I wouldn’t be so bold, Your Grace.” He lifted his head, and there was violent steel in his searing glare. “I ask only for the chance to prove myself again after failing so fatally yesterday.”

Cersei made no motion for him to continue, but likewise made no motion for him to cease. A calculating gleam stared out of those lion’s eyes, and Sandor took that as his cue to continue.  
“I see now how wrong I was when I thought the girl innocent yesterday. I was taken in by her frailty. Listening to her speak treason now, I see I was wrong.” He shot a hateful glare at the girl, who stared dumb with mouth ajar.

He turned back to the queen. “Please, my queen. Let me be her exclusive guard down in the dungeons. Let me be the one to lock the little bird in her cage and make sure she doesn’t use any more vile sorcery to fly away.” A vicious light filled the Hound’s eyes, and he ground out his words in a voice like wool scraping against steel. “I’ll make sure the girl truly _feels_ her punishment until her trial starts.” His teeth were bared.

A few dark snickers from the gallery as a select number grasped the intent behind his threat.

Sandor could see Cersei’s icy countenance start to thaw, but only a little.

Her eyes lit up like a jungle cat’s only when Sansa cried out, the girl crawling on her knees next to Clegane. “Please, Your Grace! Please, anything but that!” Her tied fists were raised in supplication. Her eyes were wide with fear, and her whole body trembled. She cowered away from the man beside her. She cried out and shrank back as the Hound actually growled and lunged at her.

Another wave of applause and laughter from the court.

Cersei was convinced. “You may have your wish, Clegane, as long as you prove true to your word. If you fulfill this role to my...satisfaction, I may see fit to reconsider your position at court.” She swept up from the throne, and the assembly stood.

Varys watched as Clegane with another growl roughly jerked the girl to her feet, who whimpered pathetically in his grip.

The crowd cheered anew, and only Varys caught the glance the jailer and his prisoner shared. 

For just a fleeting moment, Sansa Stark’s lips tucked up into a conspiratorial and relieved little smile. The Hound’s eyes were now as soft as they had been harsh, and he gave her the barest hint of a nod.

Just as quickly Clegane grunted and dragged her down the long hall toward the cells. Varys saw him practically envelop her as he pushed her along, shielding her from various rocks and fruit thrown her way.

At this, the crown’s spymaster was for the first time blindsided. There had been camaraderie in that brief silent interaction, kinship. _Tenderness_ , of all things. And Varys had not known a thing about it before now.

Thank the gods he had been the only one to see.

  
Sansa wanted to speak as Sandor steered her quickly through the throne room, down the steps, and back toward those hateful cells, but their hurried pace stopped her tongue.

That, and Trant and Blount, several feet behind them.

Once they reached the cells, Sandor barked at the two. “Leave us. What I have in store for this girl is not for anyone’s eyes but my own.”

Trant and Blount’s eyes glowed with sadistic regret, but they acquiesced and headed back above.

Finally Sansa could speak. “Sandor, I” --

“Shut up and get in the cell.”

“But --”

He followed her in, his torch the only light. He shut the door behind him, hard.

She’d been cold down to her marrow ever since her hellish night in the cell, so she jumped when Sandor’s warm hand curled around her upper arm. “Listen to me.” He spoke quickly. His face was even and oddly quiet, but his eyes --

“We have to be smart, girl. We have to make them think I’m hurting you. I need you to sit down on that rotting stool over there and _trust me._ ”

Sansa blinked. A strange calm settled over her. Yes. She trusted him. He was the _only_ one she trusted.

But she still gasped shocked as he set her roughly on the stool.

He fiddled with the large saddle bag he had under his arm. She tilted her head, questioningly. When she’d first seen it, she’d assumed he’d picked up his belongings from his rooms.

She certainly didn’t expect him to pull out a case of face paint.

“Where in _Westeros_ did you get _that?”_

A dark mocking glare. “Didn’t know, did you, that our sweet Lannister family order raids upon the peasants throughout the city, at random times? Looking for Baratheon spies?” He struggled figuring out how to unlatch a jar, swore, and broke the latch instead. “I pulled a surprise one last night, since none of them knew the queen kicked me out. Nobody was too shocked by the raid, given the confusion following Joffrey’s death. I robbed a merchant who caters to poorer ladies and whores. Filched this from his shelves, along with a handful of gold coins. That’s what they expect.” 

Once upon a time she would have been curious seeing face paint in person, and probably would have felt a guilty thrill at the prospect of putting any on. Her mother would never have allowed her to use it, of course; not a lady as young as Sansa. Only older ladies could get away with painting their faces and still be respected. And in the North, even then it was considered frivolous. 

Sandor got the brush a murky dark purple color. He cradled the back of her head and then pounded the brush into the corner of her eye so firmly she flinched. 

Sandor forced himself elsewhere, as he had so many times in his life. _I have to do this, I have to._

He moved her head nearer the light. He studied her closely, but she couldn’t read his eyes. At last his lips curled in resignation. “Aye, it’ll do. If no one looks at you too close, if you keep your head down and weep, we might get away with it.”

He took in a preparatory breath. “All right. Now your wings, little bird.”

As he rolled up her soiled sleeve, she finally put the pieces together. “You’re bruising me. I mean, painting bruises on me.”

He didn’t answer, so she knew she’d guessed right.

Someone knocked on the door. Sansa felt Sandor freeze beside her. “What,” he barked.

A female voice trembled out. “A prison shift for Lady Sansa, m’lord.”

Sandor’s shoulders slumped in relief, but he still nudged Sansa off the stool. “Whimper in the corner and weep,” he whispered to her.

He felt an inward pain as she did, ever so realistically. _The little bird would make a fine mummer._

He opened the door only a crack. It wasn’t the girl’s usual maid, who Cersei had under watch in one of the servant’s chambers. This plain little mouse of a servant girl didn’t want to see anything anyway, so it was no problem yanking the plain white shift from her and banging the door shut. He waited until he heard the girl scamper away before readying himself for the next task.

He threw the white gown at the girl then pulled out a bottle filled with a dark red substance. “Put on this flimsy thing and then use this to stain your inner thighs. Not too much, but enough so it’s visible if inspected.”

She was scandalized. “What -- more paint?”

“No.” Again that clipped, unemotional tone to his deep voice. “Afraid not, little bird. Pig’s blood.”

She looked ill and turned whiter than the shift. “No! I won’t!”

He lunged at her, his hands twisting in her hair. “ _Listen to me._ This isn’t a damn game. If the queen or one of her henchmen come down to inspect you it needs to look like I fucked you bloody. You can’t fake that with paint, girl.”

Deadening fear pierced her heart, and she didn’t know if it was more from his words or his wild tortured look. 

She dumbly took the bottle from his hands, then waited until he turned to stare at the door. His fists were tightly clenched and she heard his heavy breathing. She removed her soiled dress and slipped on the shift (which did even less to keep the biting cold from her skin). She stared a few moments at the bottle, swallowing her repugnance. Taking in a deep battle breath, she proceeded.

Sandor had never felt so detached before, so about to erupt with -- something --

“I’m done.” He closed his eyes at the new note of adult weariness in her voice. _She is dying already._

But when he turned to look at her, she was still his little bird, just bruised and bloody, looking even more like a mummer in a play. That made it all the more difficult when she still spoke in that jaded way. “I look like I’ve been raped, beaten, and otherwise defiled. I have pig’s blood on my thighs, and who knows for how long I’ll have to wear it. Now what?”

He said nothing but opened the door. _“Sandor."_

Once again she called out to him as he turned to leave her, and once again he stopped. The faithful dog.

A lump lodged in his throat, for the little talking bird spoke truly once again. “I am afraid, desperately afraid. But I am -- less so, now that you are here. Thank you. Thank you for making my last weeks bearable.”

He hung his head down low. “Keep tight, little bird. Once your kingly brother hears” --

Her words were flat. “He has the North to think of, not his sister. If he hasn’t come yet, who says he will now?” 

Sandor had nothing to say to that. He rushed out of the cell and closed the door behind him, and felt the unworthiest shit who ever lived.

He didn’t notice the figure listening from the staircase. This figure made no sound as his soft slippers and flowing robes floated away after listening to the conference between hound and caged bird. 


End file.
